


predatory wasps

by orphan_account



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sjin is smarter than him and Sjin is not going to waste his talent, Sjin is going to get out of their crummy town and become successful, he has to. He just has to. Sips is going to become a construction worker or best case a used car dealer but Sjin has to get out of this fucking town. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sjin swats the wasp, easy as can be, and then yelps and yanks back his hand from the sweaty vinyl of Sips's car. It's about negative one degrees outside and the heater is turned all the way up and Sjin's fingers are smeared with yellow flesh, the tip of one long digit turning red. Sips's forehead is beaded with moisture and he's already shucked himself of his coat of arms: two flannel shirts, his track jacket, his dad's old army coat. 

"Bit me!" He says, voice high with pain. Sjin hair that flips in the front and a shitty teenage mustache and his beard is growing in almost invisibly, but he's stupidly proud of it. He's taken off his nice jacket and he's wearing a t-shirt that reads "KISS ME I'M GRANDMA" and Sips has long since stopped asking about his sense of humor. 

"Don't be such a baby," Sips says, pronouncing the last word all wrong, as they are wont to do. "Do wasps even bite?"

"This one did," Sjin replies, and glowers at Sips, obviously not happy with his unsympathetic reaction. "What a brat." 

"You killed it, Sjin," Sips says, and laughs at Sjin's pouty face. Sjin sticks his pointed tongue out at Sips, and Sips gives in to the childish urge to try and grab it. He misses, of course. His gloves are sitting on the dashboard and snow is falling gently, silently, landing on the windowshield quiet as anything. "You big dummy, give me your hand." 

"You're the dummy," Sjin grumbles, but thrusts his hand in the direction of Sips's face. It's smeared in wasp blood and his fingers look so delicate. Up close, Sips can see all the tiny hairs on his knuckles and the crookedness of where he broke his pinky in seventh grade. "What's a wasp doing in the winter, anyway?"

Sips leans in and kisses the tip of Sjin's finger, right where the sting is. He knows that wasps don't bite. Sjin sighs a little bit, a poignant sound. He pulls his hand away gently after a second and looks at it. 

"Much better," he mutters, then looks up at Sips, his green-blue eyes catching Sips's own muddy brown ones. "Thanks, buster." 

It's a cliche, but he could get lost in Sjin's eyes. He has every freckle memorized. He knows the exact width and diameter of the tiny scar next to Sjin's right eyelid, and he knows how it got there, too: an unwieldy run with a pair of scissors at five years old. He knows Sjin has a larger scar across his lower belly from an appendectomy and he's run his fingers across it in the shadow of dusk, lying in Sjin's bed, being quiet to avoid waking his parents.

"Are we going to get out of this car?" Sips asks, slouching low and looking at the snow. It's late enough that the street lamps are lit and they illuminate every single flake. The street they're on is silent. "Your mom's gonna worry." 

"She can wait," Sjin says, turning to look at his house out the window. They've been idling outside for close to an hour now and Sips usually wouldn't mind spending time with Sjin, but he's a but worried that Sjin's parents hate him. 

"Really, Sjin, she's done enough waiting alrea--" 

"She's fine!" Sjin snaps, and Sips puffs up instinctively. Loud voices make him loud, too. 

"Don't you yell at me, mister," Sips says, voice blunt, and stabs his thick finger into Sjin's pigeon chest. "Don't you fucking yell at me-" 

"Get off my back!" Sjin yells, loud enough that Sips goes silent. Sjin squabbles, sure, they're teenagers and they get into thousands of squabbles, there have been weekends where they've abandoned each other entirely, but Sjin doesn't yell unless something is really wrong. 

"Jesus," Sips says, looking out of Sjin's face, "Sorry." 

"No, it's not-- it's not you, it's.." And Sjin is scrambling for words, hands butterflying around. "It's college." His hands drop. He looks out his window. 

"Oh," says Sips. 

Here's the thing. 

They're going to separate. They have to. And here's why: Sips is going to go to some shitty little community collage and Sjin is smart, too smart for that, he's going to some fancy rich college for architects. 

Sjin's offered, before, to go to the same college as Sips, but Sips will not, under any circumstance, allow that. He would rather die. Sjin is smarter than him and Sjin is not going to waste his talent, Sjin is going to get out of their crummy town and become successful, he has to. He just has to. Sips is going to become a construction worker or best case a used car dealer but Sjin has to get out of this fucking town. 

"We've talked about this," Sips says, a little coldly. His hands are suddenly numb. It feels like someone's dropped an ice cube down his shirt. 

"Still," Sjin says. "Still, still..." 

"No still," Sips says. 

"Fuck you," Sjin says, but he doesn't mean it. There's no venom in his voice. Sips sneaks a look at him, he looks-- deflated. He touches his wasp-stung finger to the frosty window, begins sketching something illegible. 

"Don't," Sips says, for no real reason.

"It's just-- just..." and Sjin swallows, his throat clicking. "Just, I don't want to leave." Another swallow. "You." 

"Don't do that," Sips says. He tries to make out what Sjin is drawing. It looks like a house. His heart flip-flops, tries to rise up into his mouth. Don't do this, he thinks, desperately.

"Don't--" Sjin says, himself, and stops, and he's looking at the window still but Sips realized with horror, mounting rolling horror deep in his belly, that he is crying. 

Sips reaches his hand over but the gap between them seems infinite, somehow. He watches his own arm crossing the cup holder full of trash and gum wrappers and passing the clutch and hand break and stop just inches away from Sjin's bare skin. 

"Jesus," Sips says, quietly. "Hey..." 

He can't make himself touch Sjin. He doesn't know what to do, what to say. He can't do it. 

Sjin sniffles, loud, wipes his face with his long-fingered hands. "I could go to state college, Sipsy," he says, voice pitiful. Sips looks up at the windowshield, watches each flake of snow as it falls and thuds itself against the glass, a mindless death. 

"No," Sips says, firmly. 

"I could, we could both go to the same place, we-- we could, you know--" 

"No," Sips says, again, and Sjin whips around to look at him. His eyes are red and his cheeks are wet. He looks miserable, he looks sad, and Sips is making it worse. Sips is hurting him. Sips's own heart thuds, thuds, thuds. 

"Why?" Sjin says, and tears roll down his face again while Sips watches. "Is it-- do you not want me there?" 

There's a buzzing sound, a gentle sound, and Sips looks around for the source. Anything not to meet Sjin's eyes. There's a hole in one of his car speakers and as he watches a wasp crawls out, wings fluttering. 

There's a wasp nest in his car. The wasp buzzes away and Sips thinks about reaching out and grabbing it and letting it sting his hand, thinks about sticking his whole fist into the heart of the nest. 

"You know goddamn well it isn't that," Sips says, finally. He cannot meet Sjin's eyes. I'm saving you, he thinks, but doesn't say. Trust Sjin to get melodramatic and not look at the bare facts. I'm saving you, I'm saving you. He watches the wasp crawl across his dashboard, slowly, surreally, transparent wings flickering away. 

Sjin sighs, covers his eyes with his hands. "I don't know," he says, after a long pause. "I don't know." 

Sips looks at his own hands, strong and calloused and stubby-fingered, splayed out on his lap. He is silent. The air is thick with tension and it chokes him, fills his mouth and nostrils. You need to get out of here, he thinks. You're too good for this goddamned town. 

"You son of a bitch," he says, instead of that. "You stupid son of a bitch, you make me so goddamned angry." 

"Fuck you," Sjin says, and this time there really is venom in his voice. He pulls his hands away from his face, balls them into fists. "Oh, fuck you!" 

There's another buzz, joining the first one, as another wasp climbs out of the hole in Sips's speaker. 

"You're too goddamned weak, that's your problem," Sips says, and his heart aches, but his voice is furious. 

"You're…" Sjin says, and takes a deep breath, and pounds one of his fists down on the dash, disrupting the wasps, "You're worthless!" 

There's silence. 

Sips feels nothing, inside. It feels like the antarctic. It feels like outside. 

"Your mom's probably worried," he says, with no inflection. 

Sjin doesn't look at him. He twists around, gets his coat on. "Yeah," he says. 

He opens the door, shoving the latch in the way the crappy car requires. The silence from outside is deafening. Sjin gets out of the car, body dexterous and quick, and stands outside in the snow for a second, looking in. 

"Thanks for driving me," he says, voice dull. 

"Okay," Sips says, back. 

Sjin stands there a second more, obviously wanting to say something, anything, say "i'm sorry", say "fuck you", but he says none of those things. He closes the door, instead, and Sips watches as he walks across the road, body silhouetted in the dark, and climbs up the stairs to his front door. 

Sjin rings the doorbell, and Sips watches his mom open the door, watches the light from inside blare out against the white snow, stretching across the street. They're obviously talking about something, maybe yelling, but Sips's world is quiet except for the buzzing of wasps. 

Sjin goes inside, after a minute. The door closes, the light is suddenly shut off. 

Sips sits there, for another moment. His head is silent, his heart is silent. After a tic, he rolls down the window and lets the wasps out.


	2. the spot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The spot was a treehouse that someone had abandoned. It was a broken-down little thing, made of plywood and definitely a health hazard. Sips and Sjin immediately claimed it as their own, sawing out a skyroof and filling it with blankets and porno magazines. There are a lot of memories stored there: catching a rabbit in the woods and being too afraid to kill it, finding an old lockbox and breaking it open with rocks, having their first time together under the stars, awkward and clumsy and full of love._

Sjin calls Sips the next week.

The silence in between those two points of time --them fighting and them talking again-- is endless, torturous, but Sips refuses to be the one to break first. 

Instead, he sits through school like there's someone holding a gun to his head. The teachers have long since delegated Sips to the back of the room, Sjin to the front, and for the first time Sips appreciates it. He watches the back of Sjin's head instead of doing his work. Sjin looks... tired, after a few days of not talking. Sips feels success at this, at first, but as the days wear on he starts to feel apathetic towards it, and then… sort of bad. 

Lalna asks him, during the middle of the week, what is up-- why is he so quiet, why is Sjin so quiet, what the hell happened. Sips shrugs, a response unlike him, and there must be something in his eyes, because Lalna drops it. 

Sjin called him worthless. 

They've teased each other before, called each other names before, but never that. Sips calls Sjin a stupid son of a bitch with regularity and Sjin calls him stupid back but never... that. It hurts. Sips thinks about it in class and he thinks about how angry Sjin was and he almost snaps his pencil in half. 

The teacher calls on him, in Biology, and he can see Sjin's shoulders stiffening. He doesn't know the answer, not anything unusual, and the teacher gives him a disappointed look and then to his horror calls on Sjin, Sjin who gives him the correct answer lickity-split, Sjin who is endlessly smart and brimming with ideas, and Sips really does snap his pencil in half.

"I'm going to the nurse," he announces, standing up, and grabs his backpack before anyone can say anything. The teacher looks ready to argue and he walks out with dozens of eyes on his back, leaving his broken pencil on his desk. He can't feel Sjin's. 

He goes home, because like hell he's going to the nurse's office, and his car is a storm of wasps. They flutter around the car and he opens the door, ducking back quickly to try and avoid getting stung. They are bombers, little missiles, and they fly at him. He manages to avoid most of the damage but one gets him on the hand, anyway. 

It's a pulse of pain, a little beacon, and he touches the spot with his thumb, watching the rest of the wasps buzz out of his car. On the drive home, Sips makes sure the window is rolled down, even though it's freezing outside. The cold air hits his cheeks and freezes his bones and it feels refreshing, cleaning. 

At his house, he heats up a microwave burrito because he doesn't have anything else to do. The microwave is a dingy old one and Sips has heard somewhere that you're not supposed to stand in front of old microwaves due to radiation, so he plants himself right in the center of it. Bathe me in poison, he thinks, a weird thought entirely unlike him, and then laughs out loud. It's such a-- such a Sjin thing to do. 

His laughter sounds lonely and empty in the quiet of the kitchen. He takes the burrito out of the microwave and eats it off a paper plate. It's 1 pm in the afternoon and Sips's mom isn't home yet, his dad is away on business, and he's alone. 

He's never not talked to Sjin for this long. They've gone weekends without talking, sore from squabbles, but never an entire week. 

He's not going to break first. He can't. If he breaks, that's damning Sjin to a lifetime in their little town. Sjin deserves so much more. 

His phone rings around 3. Sips has retired to the couch and he has his feet up on the coffee table and he is watching cartoons. His jacket hangs off the edge of the couch and he's wearing only an undershirt and boxers. He put a band-aid over the wasp sting but it still hurts. 

His ring tone is Never Gonna Give You Up, set by Sjin for Sjin. It's such an old meme that it's somehow flipped past annoying and back into funny again. (Though not everyone thinks that-- just the beginning notes of Sips's ringtone is enough to send Rythian into a frothing rage.) 

Sips picks his cellphone off the coffee table and flips it open without looking at it. "Yeah?" He says, expecting… Lalna, maybe, or a death threat from Rythian.

"Sips." It's Sjin. His tone is… soft. He sounds tired. 

Sips is silent. He thinks about hanging up. He thinks about throwing the phone across the room. 

"Sips," Sjin says, more desperately, this time. "Sipsy." 

Sips thinks about the buzzing of wasps and the sting on his hand and the sting on Sjin's hand, how that must be healed up by now, how he kissed it better, and finally speaks. "Sjin," he says, softly himself. 

"I'm--" Sjin starts, and then stops, and Sips can hear his throat clicking over the phone as he swallows. "It's supposed to be a lovely night, you know." 

"Is it," Sips says, watching Tom and Jerry on the television without really seeing. Tom gets his tail stuck in a mouse trap, Jerry laughs. 

"Yeah," Sjin says, and then, "The moon is supposed to be full. It's made of cheese, Gromit." 

There's a startled second of silence and then Sips can feel himself grinning. "You son of a bitch," he says, slowly. "I was so ready to be mad at you. I'm a furious guy, you know." 

"I know," Sjin says. "Wallace and Gromit was so strange. I can't believe they hooked up at the end."

"Who, Wallace and, and Gromit?" Sips asks, and he's smiling so wide it almost hurts. 

"Yeah. A kid's show! Fancy that!" 

"I heard the sequel wasn't that great." 

"Wallace and Gromit 2: Gromit Harder? No wonder. Heard it was an action flick." 

"Did it have Bruce Campbell?"

They're getting away from themselves. This is how their conversations usually go, wild references to things that may or may not actually exist. They play off of each other's humor, back and forth, back and forth. 

"Nicolas Cage, actually," Sjin says, and then pauses. "Sips."

"Sjin," Sips says.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his words come out quick, in a rush, a hurry to be done with. Sips barely hears them, but he does. 

"It's ok," Sips says, after a long second. It is. They can talk about it later, but it is. 

"Are you free tonight?" 

"Yeah." 

"Let's meet in our spot," Sjin says, quickly. 

Their spot-- Sips smiles. 

"See you at ten, you bastard," Sips says, and hangs up before Sjin can say anything else. 

Their spot. Sips gets dressed (three shirts of various sizes and lengths and a flimsy jacket, no charms against the cold) shortly before nine and heads there. It's a walk from his house, but he walks anyway. 

The streets are frigid and silent. There's snow falling, a light pitter-patter of frost, and the night sky is cloudy, with the glossy orb of the moon hanging low. Sips's sneakers break the peace, crunching through ice and snow. He's listening to the playlist Sjin made him, a summer ago, a silly thing mostly composed of rap, but there are a few folk songs that Sips finds weird and touching, though he would never admit it. 

Sjin's taste in music is scattered but usually funny. There's "Who Let The Dogs Out" on there, and "The Real Slim Shady", but there's also-- and this is so cheesy that it's almost painful-- "I Will Follow You Into The Dark". Sjin's a morbid bastard, Sips thinks, shoes crunching away as he walks the quiet streets. 

Their spot. 

They first discovered the spot in eight grade, the summer that Sjin broke his leg and Sips shaved his head. They had wandered the forest on the outskirts of town all summer, finding dead animals and climbing dead trees.

The spot was a treehouse that someone had abandoned. It was a broken-down little thing, made of plywood and definitely a health hazard. Sips and Sjin immediately claimed it as their own, sawing out a skyroof and filling it with blankets and porno magazines. There are a lot of memories stored there: catching a rabbit in the woods and being too afraid to kill it, finding an old lockbox and breaking it open with rocks, having their first time together under the stars, awkward and clumsy and full of love.

Sips gets to the treehouse a few minutes after Sjin, and Sjin is standing outside, his silhouette dark against the falling snow. He's wearing a puffy jacket and he's all huddled into himself, blowing out and watching the warm puffs of air. 

Sips coughs, loud, and Sjin looks up, eyes wide, and he smiles. 

"Hey."


	3. warmer climates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Maybe," he says, and looks up through the skylight at the moon, heavy and white, "We could just… leave."_

"Hey," Sjin says. His hands are jammed in his pockets and he's still huddled over, and Sips takes his opportunity to bop him on the head. Sjin looks startled and almost falls over, even though it's not that hard of a hit. 

"There we go, you mothertrucker," Sips says, and laughs at Sjin's face. "Even." 

"Sips!" Sjin exclaims, eyes big.

"The real guy, the best guy," Sips responds, and moves past Sjin to begin climbing the ladder up to the treehouse. He's halfway up the ladder when he remembers what he brought and twists dangerously to go through his pockets. Sjin is climbing up too, and he pauses, obviously unhappy. 

"It's freezing," Sjin grumbles. 

"Hold on," Sips says, and then finds it in his back pocket. He pulls out his dad's flask, full to the brim with rum, and shows it to Sjin, who is looking at him with an incredibly annoyed expression on his face. "Look what I brought."

"Up the ladder, Sipsy," Sjin says, and shoos him with one hand. "What's in it?" 

"Rum," Sips says and stuffs it back in his pocket to continues climbing. Once inside, he's careful where he walks: the flooring is beginning to rot with weather and age. It's a health hazard, a death trap of a place, and the blankets on the floor are mildewed and wet, but he sits down in them anyway. Sjin sits next to him. The sunroof has let in a pile of snow and it's exactly as cold inside as it is outside.

Sjin sits next to him and removes his bobble hat, folding it up before putting it in his pants pocket. "I've been thinking," he says. 

"Come here," Sips says, interrupting him, and before he can continue Sips leans in and kisses him. Sjin's stubble is rough against his cheeks and he tastes like bubblegum Chapstick and he melts into Sips easy as can be. Sips pulls away, regretfully. 

"Sips," Sjin says, a breathy little exclamation. 

"You've been thinking?" Sips asks, running his fingers through Sjin's hair. It's soft, well-kept, the color of chestnuts with a golden sheen. Sjin would be so much more handsome without the shitty mustache, but there's something endearing about it. He has long eyelashes and hairy legs and long bony fingers and he's going to be a heartbreaker when he gets older, Sips just knows it. 

"Right. I've been-- I've been thinking, what if we went to college together?" 

That's not what Sips was expecting. He can feel his face go tight, hot. He looks at Sjin with surprise and dismay in his eyes. 

"I don't... think that's possible," he says, finally. "Jesus." 

"Why not?" Sjin says, voice plaintive, pulling his head away from Sips's grasp to look at him better. 

"I don't know if you missed this," Sips says, frowning, "But I don't have the cash for that. I'm going to a shitty community college, and you're not." 

Sjin frowns back. "You don't have to," he says, finally. 

"I know you're rich, you bastard," Sips says, trying to keep his voice light, trying to prevent his temper from flaring, "But I'm not. I'm poor, Sjin." 

"I can go to community college, Sipsy," Sjin says, and he looks very tired. 

"No," Sips says.

Sjin explodes, finally. "What is your deal?!" he bursts, and his face is furious. "What is your goddamn deal?" 

Sips bites the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tastes blood welling up in his mouth, dark and sanguine. He looks out the window and tries to keep his cool. Don't yell, he thinks. Don't yell. "My deal is that you're too smart for this shit," he says, and tries to meet Sjin's eyes. "My deal is that you don't deserve to be here." 

Sjin looks surprised, like the breath has been taken out of him. "Neither do you, boss." he says, and laughs bitterly. 

Boss-- it's the old nickname that gets Sips, a nickname from back when they played Dungeons and Dragons every weekend with a little motley group of friends. Boss. Sips played a (and this was the most ridiculous thing he could think of, at the time) dirt mogul, Sjin was his faithful worker. He can feel himself tearing up, embarrassingly. He doesn't like crying in front of anyone and even though crying in front of Sjin would be a little less painful, it still stings like a bitch. 

Sips lies down, breath taken out of him, too. The blankets smell like mold but he doesn't care at the moment. Sjin lies down, too. He looks at the ceiling and Sips looks at him, at the sharp ski slope angle of his nose and the jut of his chin. Sjin is beautiful in a way made all out of angles. 

"Maybe," he says, and looks up through the skylight at the moon, heavy and white, "We could just… leave." 

Sjin looks at him, eyelashes casting dark shadows against his cheeks. "What?" 

"I don't know," Sips says, and tracks individual snowflakes falling. "I feel like saying fuck it and getting out of here. Screw everything."

Sjin turns over a little, long arms splayed out, catlike. "We could do that," he says, and his voice takes on the tone it has when he's got wind of something new and interesting. When Sjin gets his teeth in something, he never lets go. 

"I don't know," Sips says, again. "I just don't know." 

"We could, Sipsy," Sjin starts, and now there's excitement in his voice, and his eyes are sparkling. "Get on a train and, hey, start a new life! We could!" 

Sjin is grinning ear-to-ear. The cold has put apples in his cheeks and he's beginning to gesture with his free hand, the arm he's not lying on. When Sjin gets excited about a project enough, he stops eating, stops sleeping, ignores the cold and the heat. Sips is good at conniving and convincing and manipulating and there are things in him that scare Sips, a little, things like broken glass, things that he's afraid to cut himself on. But he's puppyish, now, so excited. He wriggles a little closer to Sips, touches his hand. 

"We'd have to plan it," Sips says, and his mind is beginning to fly through the variables of the idea: his parents, school, Sjin's parents, snitches. 

"We could plan it right now," Sjin responds, and wiggles even closer, so their shoulders are touching. His breath is clouding up white and it's bitterly cold and his arm feels warm against Sips's own and Sips is beginning to get excited, too.

He sits up and leans over Sjin and kisses him, a clash of tongue and a little teeth, and Sjin moves against him, sinuous. Sips is careful not to crush him, balancing his weight, and Sjin loops his skinny arms around Sips's back. He kisses back, tongue clever and swift, and things are starting to click into place. 

Sips pulls away after a second and rests his forehead against Sjin's own. "I love you," he says, breathy, in awe. 

"I love you too," Sjin says, offhand, mind churning a million miles per hour. He has that faraway look in his eyes that Sips has become accustomed to. Leave him with a pad of paper and it will be full in minutes. 

They crack out the rum to celebrate, Sips falling next to Sjin and digging it out of his pocket. The liquid tastes like fire and nail polish remover and they drink it lying down, carefully pouring it into their mouths. Sips gives the flask a knock when Sjin has it raised and Sjin almost chokes, spluttering around the opening. 

The whole thing is electrifying. With alcohol, the idea is getting better and better. They talk late into the night, discussing what they're going to do and where they're going to go, the cross-country expedition they're going to take, and Sips's heart is so full it hurts-- he's going to get out of his shitty apartment, going to leave for brighter pastures and warm sun. They're going to follow the birds that fly southS for the winter. 

They fall asleep there, curled up together, breath smelling like alcohol. It's cold enough that Sips's fingers are numb and Sjin is all bundled up in his jacket, knees pulled up inside of it. 

Sips wakes up in the first hours of the morning with a headache and an aching cold in the joints of his body. He sits up and drags the heavy blankets over himself and Sjin, who is snoring away. It's quiet: the snow has stopped falling and everything that could make noise is asleep or buried in frost. 

They've played at running away before, played at driving Sips's car out as far as they can before it runs out of gas. But nothing… nothing real, nothing permanent. They've talked about it, before, when Sips is angry at his parents or Sjin is frustrated at how strangling his are, talked about it in vague wishes only. But with the way Sjin is acting, this is something he wants to happen. 

And that's terrifying, in a lot of ways. Sips has some money stashed from working summer odd jobs but it's never going to be enough. Sjin has all the money in the world, to him, but who knows how much he thinks he needs. He can pack a suitcase in no time flat but he knows that Sjin can't, knows that he requires help when it comes to deciding what to bring camping. Sjin is all ideas and knowledge and no common sense. 

He goes back to sleep, warmer now, and snuggles up against Sjin. He tosses an arm over his shoulders and Sjin moves a little, breath going uneven, and Sips holds his own breath until Sjin goes back into deep sleep. 

He needs to start packing in the morning. He needs to fill his car to the brim with gas. He needs to pick up road maps, figure out the best way to warmer climates. There are slim jims to buy and packets of disgusting energy powder. 

There are so many things to do and so little time. Sips can't wait.


	4. golden sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sips pulls out a watermelon Ringpop, brandishing it in his hands. "Got you this."
> 
> Sjin looks down at it, and then up at him, and there is surprise in his eyes. He takes it gently, carefully, sliding it onto his ring finger, holding it up to the sun to admire it. 
> 
> "Sipsy," he says, finally. "Are you proposing to me?"

They leave the next week. Sips debates on leaving a note, eventually decides against it: what is there to say? I'm leaving town with my teen boyfriend, maybe I'll be back, maybe I won't. He has his phone, he'll field their calls for a while and eventually answer when things have cooled down. Besides, they'll realize that he's left and not been kidnapped when they see that his clothes are missing.

He fills a backpack with everything that he's going to need, underwear and deodorant and a toothbrush and socks and two pairs of jeans and three shirts. The apartment is empty when he leaves to pick up Sjin. His parents are both at work and he's skipped school to prepare. 

With the lights off and the apartment empty, it's lonely. Sips walks through one last time, touching lamps, running blunt fingers over tables and counters. Maybe it's the last time he'll see this place, maybe not. 

He hasn't told his school friends about the plan. He doesn't want them to worry, that's part of it: he doesn't like making people worry. There's something awful in the idea of having people looking for them, and the chances of that increase with everyone they tell. Lalna wouldn't care, he bets. Rythian and Nilesy would be happy to see them gone. 

Sips stands in the doorway of his apartment, backpack over one shoulder, looking in. He's turned a light on for the cat and filled her food dishes and now it's time to go. The things in his bedroom can stay there. 

He closes the door behind him. 

It's a twenty minute ride to Sjin's place, and he has the window rolled down to let the wasps out. It seems they've decided to vacate: they're pouring out tens at a time, buzzing out the window and into the frigid air. Building a nest in winter was a bad idea, he thinks. Maybe they're going to die out in the air or maybe they'll fly South, too. 

When he gets to Sjin's house, Sjin is waiting outside. His house is large, with a well manicured lawn and trees shading it, and Sjin is standing next to the gate with a suitcase in his hands. He has his stupid bobble hat on and a pair of sunglasses, even though it's not sunny out. The clouds are blocking out the sun and casting dark shadows on the streets below. 

He rolls up just as the last of the wasps fly out the window. It's quiet in the car for the first time in ages, no buzzing or flapping of wings. Sjin sees him, putting up his hand in a little wave before walking over to the car. 

"Sipsy!" he exclaims, pulling his sunglasses down his long nose to look at him. 

"What's with the glasses?" Sips asks, twisting around to watch as Sjin opens the trunk and throws his suitcase in. He has a backpack, as well, and he brings that up into the passenger seat with him. 

"So no one recognizes me, of course," Sjin says, very serious, very self-important. 

"Oh," Sips says, and looks at him, trying to look serious as well. "What are they gonna say? Hey-- hey, that's the guy?"

"The guy with the blog," Sjin says, stuffing his backpack under the dash and putting his sneakered feet up on top. "The cool guy."

"I can't believe you have a blog, you jabroni," Sips says, turning on the car. 

"Five thousand followers," Sjin says, taking off his sunglasses and folding them neatly. He takes off his hat, too, tossing it on top of his backpack. "Did you bring snacks?"

"Backseat," Sips responds, and Sjin arches his skinny body between the driver and the passenger seats to snag the bag of Cheetos and Slim Jims and other assorted goodies resting there. He tears open a package of knockoff Twinkies and bites in, making a little happy sound. 

"You pig," Sips says, pulling onto the street. They're headed out of town. Sjin twists around to look out the window, face almost pressed against the glass. 

"Bye," he whispers, quiet enough that Sips almost misses it. He decides not to say anything. Sjin stuffs the rest of the fake Twinkie in his mouth messily, chewing while watching his house receding in the distance. 

"Did you leave a note?" Sips asks.

Sjin looks at him. "What?" he asks, spraying crumbs everywhere. 

"A note, you dum-dum."

"Oh," Sjin says, and is silent for a minute, swallowing. "No. I-- I couldn't figure out what to say. They'll get it, though. I took some of mom's jewelry." 

Sips grins. Sjin lives in the more wealthy part of town, and they pass a house with topiary animals outside. "Are you-- is it for you? I didn't know you were into that kind of thing, but--"

Sjin socks him in the shoulder and Sips swerves a little bit. "Shut up. I thought we could pawn it off." 

"Nice," Sips says. He's a little surprised at how bold Sjin is, and also a little disappointed that he didn't think about that kind of thing himself. 

Sips flicks on the radio and Sjin grabs it from him, batting his questing hand away. He begins flicking through the channels, passing bubblegum pop and classical music before settling on a channel playing what Sips refers to as "dad rock". Sjin sits back in his seat, resting his chin on his chest and closing his eyes before beginning to sing along in his poorly-pitched voice. 

"I've been through the desert on a horse with no name," he sings, and Sips thinks about putting up a big fuss about how bad the music is, but there's something immensely charming in Sjin's terrible voice. They're reaching the outskirts of town and the road that leads out and away and there's a big sign that reads NOW LEAVING and Sips slows down, trying to lengthen out the moments before Sjin stops singing.

Sjin puts as much emphasis into it as he can, doing the 'la la la' parts with great gusto. Sips pulls over and stops completely, listening quietly, hands drumming along on the wheel. 

Sjin opens his eyes. "What? Why'd you stop?"

"I don't know," Sips says, and smiles, a little embarrassed. "You don't sound so bad." 

Sjin pulls open a bag of Cheetos and throws one at Sips, clearly embarrassed himself. "I can't wait until we drive through the desert," he says. "I love the heat. Are we going to get to Arizona?"

"We're damn well gonna try," Sips says, and starts the car again, pulling back onto the road. "Are you ready?" 

Sjin looks at him, meeting his eyes. "Yeah," he says, and they cross out of town. 

\--

A week later, they get to Arizona. It's not as hot as they thought it would be, it's still winter, technically, but it is plenty warm. Sips has long ago shucked his winter coat away and Sjin wears an I LOVE NEW YORK tank top. 

They've been showering in truck stop restrooms and sleeping in the car and existing off of turkey sandwiches and Ring Dings and Mountain Dew and they are gloriously, euphorically happy. Sjin has picked up a disposable camera somewhere and there's little to no chance that the film is ever going to get developed: it'll probably be lost somewhere in Sips's trunk, but there's an almost religious significance of taking each picture. 

Sips snaps a picture of Sjin posing with a statue of a giant hotdog outside a diner, grinning wildly. His hair is messy and fly-away and his pants are dirty and his beard is growing in even more, patchy and still sparse. 

The diner is a little place, dirty and cramped, and they eat there for dirt cheap. The decor is decades out of date and the waitress is about a thousand years old and Sips's booth seat has a spring sticking out of it. Sjin orders a chicken salad sandwich and Sips a bologna sandwich and they hit them together in a pale imitation of clinking glasses. 

"To us," Sips says, and Sjin repeats it. They're grinning at each other and Sips takes a large bite, almost choking himself. 

"Have your parents called?" Sjin asks, looking down at his sandwich, head inclined to the side. 

Sips chews, swallows, thinks about how to answer. "My dad called once."

"Mm," Sjin gives him a little smile, head still inclined down. "I'm too afraid to turn on my phone." 

They finish eating and debate about whether or not to try and skip the bill. The waitress walks past and gives them a long look and they decide to pay. Sjin rattles through his pockets for a tip and comes up with two bucks in change and a button. 

Sips stops outside the diner, rattling through his own pockets. "Wait," he says.

Sjin stops patiently, leaning back into the arms of the giant hotdog statue. He looks relaxed, happy, happier than Sips has ever seen him. Sjin looks radiant in the sun, a teen god with terrible facial hair and a nose like a knife. 

Sips pulls out a watermelon Ringpop, brandishing it in his hands. "Got you this."

Sjin looks down at it, and then up at him, and there is surprise in his eyes. He takes it gently, carefully, sliding it onto his ring finger, holding it up to the sun to admire it. 

"Sipsy," he says, finally. "Are you proposing to me?" 

Sips laughs-- he can't help it. Sjin looks deadly serious. "I guess," he says. "Do you want to be my wife?" 

"Oh, Sips," Sjin says, and then leans forward to kiss him. "You're my wife." 

Sips thumps him in the chest. "Yes or no?" 

"Of course," Sjin says, and hugs him tight. Sjin smells like sweat and teen boy and cheap cologne and he is warm and perfect, all his angles fitting into Sips's curves. "Of course." 

"I love you, you bastard," Sips mumbles into Sjin's shoulder. The sun is setting, casting pink and golden light across the sandy parking lot, catching the trees and making them look as if they are on fire. 

"I love you too," Sjin says, soft as anything into Sips's ear, and squeezes Sips's ass. 

Sips yelps a little and pushes him away and then laughs, voice low, and after a second, Sjin begins laughing too.


End file.
